


And I'll Be Your Man

by AvocadoLove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Artist Steve Rogers, Disabled Character, Hurt Tony Stark, Iron Man 1, M/M, Modern Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, Skinny Steve, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AvocadoLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony escaped Afghanistan with a bad knee and a heart too damaged to hold up to strain. But he's been given a second chance, and isn't going to waste it. If he can't pilot Iron Man, he'll find someone who will. </p><p>(Based on the Kink_Meme prompt: Iron Man and Tony Stark are not pretending to be different people, they actually <i>are</i> different people. Iron Man is actually modern born Skinny!Steve.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Starts in the middle of IM1. A few lines of dialog from the first scene are lifted from the movie.
> 
>  **EDIT** : I FUCKED UP.  
> The title for this hit me like a ton of bricks, but sounded _slightly_ familiar. I googled and searched A03, but came up with nada. Now that I'm hip deep into the plot, I realized there is indeed another (VERY GOOD) And I Will Be Your Man (http://archiveofourown.org/works/2281164/chapters/5013642) by Ann2Who. It's actually one of my favs. *face palm* I'm still on the fence if I should change the name of mine, buuuut for its staying until if/when a new title hits me.

"I swear," Rhodey says as they move away from the group of junior airmen. "I didn't expect you to be walking around so soon."

"Limping," Tony corrects with a smile he doesn't remotely feel. "The word you're looking for is limping." He looks down meaningfully at the cane he's leaning heavily on, the slight bulge in the right leg of his slacks where the stabilizing brace fits over his knee, supporting what's left of it.

Rhodey's eyes are a little sad. "You know we were damn lucky to find you at all, Tones."

Tony doesn't disagree. A trick knee and an arc-reactor are a small price to pay, compared to a second chance to make things right. He shouldn't have gotten out of that cave, but since he did he doesn't plan on wasting what time he has left: pulling Stark Industries out of weapons manufacturing was only the tip of the iceburg.  

Tony shuffles closer. "I've come to talk to you. I'm working on something big--I want you to be part of it."

Rhodey's face lights up. "You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that." Glancing over his shoulder to the class of waiting junior airmen, he guides Tony a few more limped steps away so they could talk unobserved. "You're about to make a lot of people very happy. That stunt you pulled at the conference the other day was a doozy."

Something cold settles behind Tony's arc reactor. He forces his tone to be light. "Rhodey-bear, when have you ever known me to go back on my word?"

"C'mon, what are you, some kind of humanitarian now?" Rhodey's smile fades as Tony doesn't immediately respond.

"It--this project isn't for the military. I... can't do this by myself." It stings to admit it. It's worse when Rhodey shakes his head, lips pressing together in annoyance.

"You should go home," Rhodey says, and begins to turn away.

Tony catches his arm. "I need you to listen to me--"

"What you need is time to get your head right." Rhodey claps a hand on Tony's shoulder and looks him in the eye. "It's been less than a week since you got back, Tones."

Tony doesn't budge. "I'm serious."

"Okay." But Rhodey's humoring him now. Tony can see it. "I'll see you later."

With one last squeeze to Tony's shoulder, Rhodey walks back to the waiting class of junior airmen.

Tony get's it. He really does. Rhodey put his career in major jeopardy by searching for him long after everyone else gave up. And as Stark Industries liaison to the military, the heat came down on him when Tony announced his company was no longer in the weapon's business.

So okay. He understands why he's getting the cold shoulder now. Rhodey will come around, he always does.

Tony knew it was a long shot anyway.

He makes his slow way back through the airbase, the shuffle-click, shuffle-click of his cane echoing mockingly through the halls. Fit airmen walk past him, giving sidelong glances. Tony meets every one of their eyes until they look away.

He's not trying to hurry, but by the time he's halfway through the building his heart is pounding in his ears, and it feels like there's a thousand pound weight crushing in on his chest. He can't catch his breath.

Stopping, Tony tries not to pant too visibly as he fumbles in his pocket and uncaps a pill bottle. He pops the nitro-tablet in and holds it under his tongue for it to melt.

It does, and slowly the tightness eases. He can breathe again.

After a few moments, he realizes there's a commotion in the room over. The conversation's so loud he can hear it through a locked door.

"Sir, if you would just _look_ at these reports--"

"Your project was already a no-go, Rogers."

"That was before this data from drone four came in."

"Do the words 'human shields' mean anything to you?"

"That's what I'm trying to say. The hostiles are clustering to the south. I think they're prepping to move on Gulmira."

Tony turns to the still closed door, listening with more interest.

The brisk, annoyed voice speaks again. "And if you're wrong, it's a cluster fuck our military cannot be involved in. Hundreds of civilians will die."

"If I'm right, even more people are in danger right _now_. A precision strike team--"

"Oh, so now you're a military strategist as well as an analyst? I'm sorry, son. The best and the brightest have already looked into reports like this, and more you aren't authorized to see. They've determined this is a cluster we can't afford to get into."

"I thought we were here to help, sir."

"I don't think I like your tone."

"And I don't think I like sitting back and doing nothing while--"

"Enough! Get out of here and cool off. Take the day,"

"But sir--!"

"Get out of my sight, Rogers."

A moment later the door slams open, and a man walks out. He's short, maybe 5'5 if he was lucky, and a quick glance shows that's probably with shoe lifts. He's almost painfully thin, with wheat-blond hair, his sharp shoulders tight and angry under his starched white button up and black slacks. On his chest was an orange and white civilian worker badge.

And Tony had met him before.

"Rogers," Tony blurts, remembering. "Steve Rogers, from the Mulholland Gallery?"

Steve Rogers whirls on him. The color's high in his fair cheeks, one hand balled into a fist at his side. He visibly hesitates at seeing Tony standing there.

"Mr... Stark?" Tony sees the moment it clicks in his head, which was no surprise. Tony's face had been on the news... a lot over the last few months.

But Tony was busy doing his own staring, trying to put things together. That night was a little fuzzy, but not more than most from that year--decade. Pepper had made him attend, and Tony had ended the night with twin red-heads. Male and female.

"Your work was featured as photorealistic Americana," Tony says, recalling at last.

Rogers visibly searches for words for a moment, then nods. "I'm surprised you remembered."

That brought back another conversation. Something Yinsen had said: _'If I had been that drunk, I wouldn't have been able to stand._..'.

Tony shoves it away. "I have a good memory for faces. One of the joys of being me." He pauses. "So, Gulmira?"

There's an awkward pause. Rogers flushes even more, probably realizing that Tony had heard everything. "That's classified," he says shortly. "It was nice to see you, Mr. Stark." He nods and turns down the hall to go.

Tony shifts into motion to follow at his top limped gait. His heart's thudding again, but for an entirely different reason. "So, you're an analyst now?"

"Civilian analyst," Rogers says, but slows his pace to accommodate Tony's gait.

"Bit of a change from being an artist."

"The gallery's closed."

Well, yeah. He's guessed as much. Tony knows business almost as well as he knows mechanics, and the chances of a new gallery to succeed on the strength of a talented but unknown artist was pretty low.

He decides to shift the conversation to more of a comfortable direction -- himself. "I know what it's like."

"Know what's like?"

"Not being the most popular guy around the airbase for doing the right thing."

Rogers glances at him. "I saw your news conference, same as everyone else."

"And?"

Rogers doesn't speak for a long moment, but the way his eyes flick away tell Tony a lot. So he decides to nudge. "My leg's crippled, not my ego. I can take it."

"What you're trying to do is admirable," Rogers admits. "But STARK weapons are still out there there. The Army has stockpiles of them, and so do other countries -- not manufacturing more isn't going to do anything about that, and meanwhile other companies are just going to fill the void. STARK has always been the best, and you're about to leave our fighting men to face the enemy who is armed with your weapons, while we're putting inferior quality in their hands."

"Bluntly put," Tony says. "But as it happens, I agree with you."

They reach the exit to the hallway. He ignores the fact that Rogers automatically steps forward to hold the door for him as it was awkward with one hand managing the cane.

Rogers gives him a puzzled look. "Then why do it?"

"Long story." Tony pretends to consider his next words, though he's made up his mind already. "I'm going to do lunch. Why don't you come with?"

"Why?"

"Because from what I heard, you're not returning today. You're free, I'm free. You're interested in Gulmira, and I have... an insider's perspective of the area."

Rogers hesitates again, gaze drifting from the airbase to the parking lot. Then something in him hardens. He looks at Tony for a long moment as if weighing his words against the broken, haggard man who had been the subject of that conference a week ago.

"I'm not telling you any classified information."

It's a pretty unenthusiastic yes, but Tony will take it.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Needless to say, without Captain America influencing the former SSR, SHIELD goes by a different acronym...

* * *

 

 

Tony finds he isn't disappointed over lunch. What observations Rogers makes on the region in and around Gulmira (carefully avoiding anything that can be considered proprietary or classified -- the man can keep a secret, even though he's clearly intimidated over the high class restaurant Tony chose.) are on point. He has his biases and opinions on the region, just like everyone else, but was careful to express both sides of every argument.

High priced fruit drink in hand, Tony sits back and makes himself do something he usually doesn't have the patience, for: Listen.

After they part ways, Tony goes straight to his workshop, hacks into the civilian database of Rogers' company, (pathetically easy to do, even for JARVIS -- honestly, he's doing them a favor by exposing their flaws) and pulls up Rogers' medical records.

They are... impressive.

 

 **Scoliosis** \- mitigated by childhood braces and a surgery.

 **Heart murmur as a result of a faulty valve and a dangerous hole in the left ventricle-** \-- fixed through another childhood surgery. Though Rogers still has a trace of a murmur, his heart can stand up to stress.

 **Asthma** \- Under control with medication and a prescribed emergency inhaler.

 **Pernicious Anemia** \-- under control with medication for his liver and supplemental B12 injections.

 **Colorblindness** \--  Inconvenient, but with the right interface, they could work around that.

 **Partial (40%) deafness in right ear** \-- Same.

 

 

He's also underweight, but in this case it's a help, not a hindrance. A hundred and four pound mass is that much easier for repulsers to lift than two-hundred.  

"JARVIS," Tony says, brushing the holo-file to the side and opening a new one. "New project. Designation: Mark 2." 

"Shall I save to the STARK server, sir?"

He thinks for a moment, and his hesitation surprises even himself. "Let's keep this close to the chest."

"Saving to private server," JARVIS confirms.

Tony glances again to the file regarding Steve's heart, and rubs absently at his own arc reactor.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next week, Tony makes a point of "accidentally" running into Steve twice more just as the other man is getting out of work.

Two more impromptu luncheons has only strengthened, not changed, Tony's opinion. This is the man for the job.

But the third time he suggests lunch, Rogers' lips thin.

"What?" Tony asks. "No for Italian?"

"What is this?" Rogers demands.

"What's what?"

Rogers' jaw sets in a rather endearing fashion. It's at moments like this Tony thinks he gets a glimpse to the core of Steve Rogers. For such a little guy, he's strong -- strong where it counts.

"If this is a date," Rogers says, and his cheeks flush bright red, but he looks Tony straight in the eye as he continues, "I'm flattered, Mr. Stark, but I... I'm not in the right place."

"And I am?" But inwardly, Tony's intrigued. 'Not in the right place' was much different than 'not into men'. "But as it happens, no. Not a date, Rogers. An interview."

Rogers blinks, then glances back across the parking lot to the sprawling airbase. "I already have a job."

"I think you'll like what I have to offer," Tony says lightly, and continues his limping gait towards his car.

Rogers follows. "I'm already doing good work where I'm at."

"You can do better."

"How?" Rogers increases his pace, stepping in front of Tony to make him stop. "No disrespect, Mr. Stark, but you're out of the weapons business."

Tony quirks a smile. "There's... something I want to show you." He'd wanted to give it a little more time, get to learn Rogers' buttons, really make his case, but... the hell with it. If he isn't moving forward, he's moving backward. And Tony's prepared to offer whatever it takes. "A project I've been working on. Top secret."

Rogers hesitates again, curiosity and wariness warring behind his eyes. Then his jaw squares as if he were bracing himself.

That's another thing Tony has noticed about Rogers -- he doesn't back down in the face of a challenge.

"What do you have to show me, Mr. Stark?" he asks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony can tell Rogers is somewhat overawed by the Malibu house. Well, it was built to be intimidating -- a grandiose, stunning work of modern architecture that overhangs the best vista of the Pacific he could buy. 

But ultra-modern or no, Tony can't manage the staircase to the lab with his ruined knee. He ushers Rogers through the light-drenched living room and into the elevator.

Then he starts his pitch. "What do you know about how I got out of captivity?"

Rogers glances sharply at him, as if surprised Tony has brought it up. "Not much," he admits. "Mostly speculation. There were reports of an explosion in the mountain range were you were suspected to be held -- satellite pictures picked it up." Which meant Rogers had looked into it, personally. "Three Blackhawk helicopters were sent out to investigate, and you were retrieved six hours later with several... um, injuries."

Tony nods once, his eyes to the closed elevator doors. "The group that captured me were called the Ten Rings."

"Were called?"

"They had my technology," Tony says. "I killed them with it."

He isn't sure if he expects Rogers to be shocked or disgusted or what. But Rogers looks only grim and says softly, as if afraid he'd be overheard in the tiny elevator, "Not all of them, Mr. Stark. A group calling themselves the Ten Rings are clustering around Gulmira, and other nearby villages. They're killing the civilians -- men and boys -- and taking the women and children."

Tony has already suspected as much. "Let me guess. Your supervisors don't want to hear about it."

Rogers fists clench, but he nods.

The elevator dings open.

Cane tapping the floor, Tony limps out and gestures Steve to follow.

He never lets anyone in his garage/workshop. It's sacred ground. Even Pepper doesn't come in unless for dire circumstances -- something on fire figuratively or literally with the company.

It feels... odd, sharing this space with someone else.

Rogers is silent as he takes in the workshop; the tools and spread of classic cars in the far corner. All the halodesks are currently shut down, showing gleaming but empty tabletops.

In the Corner of Shame, Dummy raises up and clicks its claw at Tony and his visitor.

"Steve Rogers, Dummy," Tony says, waving a hand. "Dummy, Steve Rogers -- no, Dummy, you stay in that corner. That's _your_ corner until you learn WD-40 is not acceptable to spritz on my salads."

But Rogers has stepped closer to the machine and holds out his hand tentatively. Dummy closes its claw around a finger and wags it up and down in a parody of a shake.

"Amazing," Rogers murmurs, glancing aside at Tony. "You built this?"

"You're fawning over him?" Tony shakes his head. "I built him when I was seventeen for my Master's Thesis--I've moved on since then to bigger and better. Incidentally," he adds, "I had another idea out of MIT I think you'll like."

Rogers turns a little reluctantly from the robot. "Does it have to do with the fact you haven't told me-- or anyone-- how you actually escaped?"

Tony points at him with the hand not using his cane. "You're clever. Has anyone told you you're clever?"

"I'm an analyst," Rogers says, but his cheeks are slightly pink. "It's my job to log independent facts and piece them together."

And his tactical reasoning and military analytic test scores were off the charts. Tony had looked them up. Really, the man had been wasted when he'd been a starving artist.

Tony nods and gestures with his free hand to a space over the desk. The air lights up in a 3-D grid.

"I had an idea -- I think from watching Alien too many times. Remember those moveable machine robots the marines drove? -- Anyway, an armored exoskeleton with a human pilot inside. I don't know why I never completed it-- maybe it wasn't the right moment."

"A human pilot inside?" Rogers repeats. "Not automated? The military have been leaning towards unmanned drones over the last few years."

"No. This," Tony taps the side of his temple, "can still problem solve better than--" he waves a hand at Dummy, who had grabbed the handle of a mop and was sweeping it jerkily back and forth, sans water.

Steve's face blanks for a moment, then he tilts his head.  "I see your point."

Tony's grin has teeth. "The Ten Rings wanted me to build them the Jericho. They got something a little more than they bargained for." For a dangerous moment his throat is on the verge of tightening, and he does not allow himself to think of Yinsen's face. "It was... mostly successful. My escape got a little hot. I built in an eject feature in the armor, but the landing was rough." He taps his knee, meaningfully.

Rogers looks down, then up. He bites his bottom lip.

"You can ask," Tony says. He knows what the next question is going to be -- Pepper had already asked him, put pamphlets on his desk and everything. Besides, Rogers is endearingly easy to read.

"Have you looked into a knee replacement? My Ma had one before she--" He stops. Changes tracks, obviously avoiding painful memories of his own. "It made her last years easier, getting around. Always claimed she should have done it earlier."

"No go," Tony says. He touches above his heart, where the arc reactor is safely hidden from view under a thick shirt. "My capture wasn't pretty: I took shrapnel to the chest -- damaged the heart muscle. Long story short, anesthesia is too risky."

"I'm sorry," Rogers says automatically.

"I don't want your sympathies," Tony says. "I want a solution. Specifically, you."

"What?"

"You're my solution."

" _What?_ " Rogers asks again, a little desperately.

He mentally braces himself. "My heart's too weak to handle significant G-forces for any meaningful flight. Or battle."

"Battle?" Rogers demands sharply.

With a flick, Tony brings up the schematics on the hologrid. The 3-D representation of Mark 2 hovers in place --  though some of the final details have yet to be drafted in. Idly, he flicks the holo-chest piece to show an arc reactor nestled inside. "Mark 1 -- the armor I used to escape, was a prototype. I have ideas for a new magnetic repulser technology that will allow for flight, and defensive/offensive capabilities. Its power source will be revolutionary -- and that's coming from me, so you can take that to the bank."

Rogers steps closer, curiosity playing across his face. Tony can tell he doesn't get it. Not yet. But he will.

"I've never seen anything like this," Rogers admits.

"No one has," Tony confirms. "But I have a problem. I have the will and the knowledge, and the people in Gulmira have the need for a... hero. You, Mr. Rogers, are the solution."

Rogers blinks. "You want me to run risk ratios for you?"

"I want," Tony says, looking steadily at him, "a pilot."

Rogers takes a step back, a half-smile forming as he clearly thinks Tony's joking. His smile quickly fades.

"Civilian pilots won't work," Tony says hurriedly.  "This is nothing like an aircraft. It will have an entirely original interface system. Air force-- they're out. This is a private venture. The government will not be involved."

"Is this a joke?" Rogers demands. "Are you... testing me? Is this a test?"

Tony turns to him. "You told me last week that without the newest STARK tech, our men are left without defense. My weapons are still out there, being used by terrorists. I need something equal to-- better -- to destroy them."

Disapproval is whit large over Rogers' face. "Then this is revenge."

" _No_. It's... I never should have gotten out of that cave." Tony hears a raw note of truth in his voice. Rogers must, too, because he's quiet. Listening. Swallowing, Tony goes on. "I spent thirty-eight years jackassing around the world, and I never once stopped to wonder where my weapons were really going, and why the same areas kept destabilizing... Now I've gotten this second chance, I have to make it right. I _need_ to make this right."

Rogers is quiet for a long moment. Then he looks from Tony to the hologram and back again. "I can't be your pilot, Mr. Stark. I have asthma--"

"Which you're successfully medicated for," Tony says. "And if you need it there will be an emergency infusion built into the air supply, the same compounds as in your inhaler. Your other medical issues can be worked around."

"Other medical--have you looked into my file?" Hectic spots of color dot Roger's cheeks. "Haven't you heard of HIPA laws?"

"Point is," Tony says, waving that aside. "I've taken that all into consideration. You're my man, I want no other."

Rogers turns away from him, one hand running down his face. He's angry. Tony can tell. The tips of his ears are red, but he hasn't stormed off yet. Against all odds, against all reason, Rogers is considering it.

"You will be well compensated," Tony presses. "I realize what I'm asking."

He barks out a strained laugh. "Oh, do you."

"Whatever hazard pay you want. Name it. Any number, it's yours."

Roger's thin shoulders tighten, and when he turns back there's something considering in his gaze.

 _Gotcha_ , Tony thinks.

He expects Rogers to name some obscene number, but all he says is, "How far back did you look into my file?"

"All the way," Tony admits. "I had to be sure the surgery to correct the hole in your heart was successful."

"No," Rogers interrupts with a sweep of his hand. "Not my medical file."

Tony isn't in the habit of admitting he has missed or overlooked something, so he says, "Gambling debts I should know about, Rogers?"

"My fiancée..." Rogers takes a breath that shudders through his narrow frame. His fists clench again. "Have you heard of SWORD?"

"Sentient World Observation and Response Department," Tony rattles off. "Kind of like the Men in Black. Less aliens."

Rogers nods, and the edges of his lips turn down. "Bucky was a SWORD field agent. He led a specialized team. Called themselves the Howling Commandos. Three years ago, they were involved in a mission that went south... I never knew the specifics. He wasn't allowed to tell me much. But when they needed backup the most, SWORD cut all ties, denied any involvement, and left them high and dry."

Three years ago. That was when Rogers had turned from being an artist to a civilian analyst. He'd been looking for answers in military databases. Maybe preparing his résumé for a lateral transfer into SWORD itself.

"I'm sorry," Tony says.

Roger's eyes are sad, but his mouth quirks back up. "I don't want your sympathies, Mr. Stark. I want a solution."

It isn't often Tony has his own words turned against him. Leaning back, he gestures for Rogers to continue. He's all ears.

"I want to know why Bucky died." Rogers' voice hardens. "I want to know who authorized the mission, and who took the Howling Commandos out. And if his remains are left... I want to bring Bucky home. That's my price, Mr. Stark. You give me access to your technology to do that, and I'll be your man."

Tony doesn't even pretend to consider. He extends his hand. Steve takes it.

"I'm still paying you," Tony says, holding his grip for a long moment. "Exorbitantly." 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

"You should quit your job," Tony says, one week (and several dinners) later. "Move in and come work with me."

Rogers looks up from his bowl of spicy curry, his eyebrows raised. They're in Tony's living room, a spread of papers, topographical maps of Afghanistan, and schematics between them.

"Won't that be a little suspicious?" Rogers asks. "Me quitting, _just_ as your new armor shows up?"

Tony waves the concern away. "No one will know its you in there -- that's what the facemask is for. And there's no chance anyone will trace the armor back to STARK Industries. This is above board, all pieces machined here in my workshop. The raw titanium gold alloy is easy enough to get in industrial quantities. There will be hundreds of possible sources, if anyone bothers to look--but that's beside the point. I need you to work for me, officially."

Rogers is still staring like _Tony's_ the one who doesn't get it. "Stark Industries has room for a military analyst?" He smiles crookedly. "Or a graphic designer?"

"Unofficially, you and I need an alibi if we're spotted together. No one will buy that we're suddenly besties from different sides of the tracks. Officially, I'll need help around the house. Pepper's become more involved in the corporate side, and--"

"Wait, you want me to be your butler!?"

"I think the term is 'man servant'. And there's been a long, honored history in the Stark family-- what's with the face? That is one mean face of disapproval, Rogers. You should bottle that. Is it 'man servant?' Am I not supposed to use that phrase nowadays?"

Rogers pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stop. Just--What about 'personal assistant'?"

" _Pepper_ is my PA." Tony pauses. "I guess I could have two, or you can fight her for it."

"If the next words out of your mouth are 'mud' or 'wrestling'--"

Tony snaps his mouth shut. Then he reaches over to touch the holoscreen map of the Afghanistan province they were working on. "I'm crunching the numbers, but unless I design the armor for low-orbit, the best speed to the region still clocks a five-hour flight time one way."

"Five hours? You can't do better than that?"

He tries not to wince. "The problem isn't speed, Rogers. It's keeping you from liquefying under intense G-forces. Human beings are fragile."

Making a face, Rogers sets the curry aside, and stares down at the map, his brow furrowed. Tony can guess what's going through his head: Roger's had spent the better part of three years scraping his way up the ladder to gain enough access to gather intel on his dead fiancée's last mission. It's one thing to agree to a mad billionaire's plot. Another to gamble away three hard years.

But Rogers surprises him. His blue eyes meet Tony's. "You're right. There's only so many hours in the day, and only so many days I can call in sick without being suspicious." He sighs. "But I'm giving a two week notice."

Magnanimously, Tony waves for him to do just that. "Testing the new repulser tech should take at least that."

 

* * *

 

 

If Tony were working by himself, he probably would have tried the repulser lift tests before they were strictly ready. And okay, he _might_ have run a pre-test or two in the safety of his garage, with Dummy holding the fire extinguisher because there was a small -- tiny! -- chance the new repulser technology would blow up instead of providing a controlled upward thrust.

And... yes. He may have underestimated the power a little, flipped against the far wall, and come down, hard, with is bad knee taking the weight.

Those next few minutes on the floor, howling in pain, clutching his leg while Dummy stood over him quizzically with the fire extinguisher, hadn't been his best.

At least Rogers hadn't been there to see it.

But Tony had gotten the data he needed. As a result, he's much more confident as he helps button Rogers up into the newly manufactured Mark 2.

It's gorgeous -- still unpainted, the chrome titanium glints under the workshop lights.

Rogers runs his bare hand over it almost reverently, "This is..." He looks at Tony, then immediately back at the armor. Tony knows the feeling. "This is like a work of art," he breathes.

"You're the artist," Tony says. He gestures to the armor. "Wanna take her for a ride?"

It's a work of moments to get Rogers in. The armor was -- literally -- made to fit. Soon, Rogers is buttoned up except for the helmet. He looks down at his gleaming metal chest. There's a small, unsure smile on his face.

"How do you feel?" Tony asks.

"Taller," Rogers says after a moment. And yeah, that's true too. In the armor, he stands nearly 6'5. It's strange to look up at him.

Rogers takes a step forward, and the hydraulics smoothly shift into gear, moving six hundred pounds of metal and state-of-the-art electronics with ease.

Tony stands back, leaning on his cane and watches. "I am a genius," he declares.

Rogers shoots him a look, then laughs, shaking his head. "You really are." A fringe of blonde hair falls across his eyes. He pushes it back before he flips the faceplate down. The armor's eyes light up, and Tony moves to the console to get an update on the readings.

"How's it look inside the can?"

"The operating system's just like the prototype you showed me." Rogers voice comes out a touch deeper, with a distorted electronic buzz. That had been his idea -- one more safeguard to help hide his identity.

Tony nods and taps a few commands into the holo-display in front of him. All sensors show green across the board. He looks up at Rogers, who's busy playing with the gauntlets, flicking the laser cutter in and out of the wrist guard. "So? You ready to take her for a spin?"

Rogers head snaps to him. The mask was a severe scowl, but Tony swears he can almost hear the grin in Roger's voice, slightly breathless as he answers, "Yeah. Do I just--" But he must answer his own question because the repulsers flare to life.

"Hold on, speedy--"

But it's too late. Rogers takes a few easy steps towards the garage exit, smoothly shifting into a run. Then the repulsers fire. He shoots out of the garage in a blaze of chrome and blue fire.

Tony's mouth drops. "Son of a bitch." Well that's one way to test the repulsers.

In the communicator system piped through the workshop, he hears Roger's exhalant whoop.

"Oh my--This is _amazing_!" Rogers crows, over the comm system, and Tony can't help his own grin. His delight is infectious.

Through the console, he watches the armor climb in altitude. Two hundred feet, three hundred feet... then Rogers completes a barrel roll, whooping again.

Streams of data pour in from the suit -- the left repulser isn't firing as efficiently as the right, creating a slight shimmy. It's not enough to affect flying, but Tony will add it to the bug report to be fixed later.

"Looking good, Rogers," he reports. "How are the sensors?"

Rogers laughs in his ear, delighted. But he obediently pulls up the sensors on the HUD.

"Infrared, zoom, topographical maps all working. Wow, the video feed is really sharp."

"Only the best for you, honeybee."

"Don't call me--" Suddenly, Roger's voice goes sharp. "Wait, you see that?"

"What?" Tony's eyes fly to the sensor readings. Some little bugs are showing their heads, but everything is still green. Rogers is stable in the air. "See what? Rogers?"

"There!"

Then Tony glances to the screen that shows him what Rogers is looking at. He's got the armor's visuals pointed down an alley in mid-town, maybe two miles away.

There are several infrared dots surrounding a smaller dot. As Rogers shifts the view into telescopic zoom and night vision, it becomes clear. Three young men have surrounded a girl. Their body language scream trouble.

"This rig's bulletproof, right?" But Rogers is already swooping down.

"JARVIS, scan the three hostile targets for metallic weapons -- focus on anything gun-shaped," Tony says, typing commands and feeding results into Steve's HUD.

"One found," JARVIS replies, and highlights the offender.

"Rogers, watch the asshole to the left."

"Got it." Rogers lands a little fast, nearly fetching into the alley wall.

Through the armor's audio sensors, Tony hears several shocked exclamations from the thugs.

"Holy shit!"

"Is that a robot?"

Rogers, to his credit, has style. "Hey," he says, and Tony can just imagine the image he makes -- all chrome and the armor's eyes glowing in the gloom. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

The thug on the left does get a shot off. The bullet pings against the titanium -- a nine mil wouldn't make a dent.

Rogers responds by grabbing the lid of the nearest trash can and throwing it like a freakin' Frisbee. With the suit's hydraulic power, it bowls the thug over.

The other two thugs look at each other, then run.

Rogers turns to the girl, who had been trying to press herself into the wall. "Are you okay, miss?"

Her eyes are nearly as wide as saucers. "Y-yes?" She doesn't sound sure.

"There's a police cruiser incoming," Tony says. "I think someone heard the gunshot."

Rogers, polite as ever, bends down to scoop up the girl's purse, which had fallen to the ground. He hands it back. "Help is coming," he says. "I'd... uh, appreciate it if you didn't tell them about me."

Tony's honestly not sure how much of this the girl is processing, but she takes her purse with a watery nod. Rogers steps back, fires the repulsers, and escapes into the night sky.

Tony lets out a breath. "Had fun? Got any grandmas you want to help across the street while you're at it?"

Rogers laughs again. Full of adrenaline and completely unrepentant. "I don't know. See any?"

"Whatever flyboy --- hey, J. What's the world record for fixed wing altitude?"

"Eighty-five thousand feet, Sir."

Tony looks at the stats. The armor hasn't even stretched her legs. "Rogers? You wanna?"

Rogers' reply is to blast the repulsers.

"See the moon?" Tony says whimsically.  "Aim for it, and don't stop until you reach it."

Rogers laughs. "Sure thing, Mr. Stark."

By the time Rogers reaches thirty thousand feet, the armor's sensors are screaming trouble. He's gaining mass, which should be impossible, except...

Oh no. Ice.

"Abort," Tony says tersely. "I didn't calculate for condensation you'd pick up through the clouds."

But Rogers keeps pushing upwards. Forty thousand feet, forty-five thousand...

Rogers' HUD display must be showing what Tony's seeing, but the man's high on success and doesn't realize the dangers of an electric short.

"Rogers, you're collecting ice. Level out--"

Then the halo-station goes dead as Tony's connection to the armor is lost. No, it's not on his end. The armor's simply lost power. At almost fifty thousand feet.

"Rogers! Shit! JARVIS, get him back on!"

The console in front of him is a sea of red sensors, and Tony's hands fly over the keyboard even while another part of his mind calculates terminal velocity, and how long it will take Rogers to hit ground.

No, no, no...

There's a slim chance the comms are still functioning. Tony designed them on a separate circut, hijacked over STARK satellites, with its own backup battery power.

"Rogers, if you can hear me, hit the flares. It may dislodge the ice.... Rogers?" Nothing. "Steve?!"

The screens swim in front of him, and distantly Tony can hear his own breaths sawing in and out, but it's like he can't get enough air.

Now there's a screen flashing a whole new set of bad news -- his own vital stats.

Turning, Tony intends to hobble to his desk where his meds are tucked away. But a twinge from his bad knee makes him take a short step, and he overbalances. He hits the floor, hard, and wheezes.

The arc reactor feels like a thousand pound weight anchored to his chest, and for a few moments all Tony can do is lay there with pain lancing up his left arm, his mind filled with Steve Rogers -- another brave man who had trusted him... who was probably a flat smear on the asphalt by now. He'd failed Steve, just like he'd failed Yinsen.

"--ony?"

"Connection reestablished," says JARVIS' calm voice, as the speakers suddenly crackle to life again.

"--ony? Tony, can you hear me? JARVIS, what's happening? Why does he sound like that?"

The comms hadn't fully gone down. Steve can hear Tony having a... a moment. Tony takes a gulp of air, forces it to matter, and says, "You're alive."

Steve laughs. "I deployed the flares. Are you okay? You sound--"

"Fine. I'm fine," he says shortly.

"Is he lying, JARVIS?" Steve demands.

Tony makes a short cut-throat motion before JARVIS can say a word. Something flashes angrily on the screen, but the AI is silent.

"Test flight's over," Tony says and _forces_ his voice to be calm. "Unless you want to go three for three on brushes with death tonight?"

Rogers is quiet. Tony has a bad feeling he senses his bullshit, but Tony can't care less right now.

 "Come on in," Tony says.

"... Copy that." Steve sounds a little disappointed, but he'll get more airtime later.

JARVIS -- bless his programming -- lights up a display that Tony can see from the floor. The armor's at three hundred feet and climbing.

Tony mutes the comm, then lays on his side, clutching his left arm and heaving in air. It's not enough. He needs his meds.

Slowly, painfully, Tony rolls to a sitting position, and uses the end of his cane to pull the desk drawer open. It takes a few whacks, but he rolls the pill bottle close enough to reach, then pops two.

By the time Steve lands, Tony's heart is beating normally. He's dismissed the screen displaying his vitals, and wiped away the worst of the flop-sweat from his face.

Rogers lands the armor in an impressive crouching position before standing. When the helmet retracts, his cheeks are flushed and his blue eyes are almost luminous with excitement.

_He's beautiful_ , Tony thinks. Gone is the pinch-lipped, grieving analyst. Someone's finally given him a taste of freedom -- of power --  and he likes it.

"So," Rogers-- _Steve_ says, confident as if he faced certain death every day. "There's an icing problem." He steps out of the armor, but his eyes are fixed on Tony worriedly as if he's more concerned with him than the fact that he almost died a very messy death twenty minutes earlier.

"Nothing I can't fix with a newcoat of paint," Tony says with forced ease. He makes himself step -- limp -- back to his holo-displays. The medication's been hidden out of sight. "How do you feel about hot-rod red?"

"Little flashy for my taste." Steve holds out his hand almost like he wants to touch Tony. Then he drops it. "Mr. Stark, are you sure you're all--"

"That's the point of an alter-ego, Rogers," Tony says. He knows what Steve was going to ask, and he doesn't care to hear it. No, he's not all right. And no, he doesn't want to talk about it. He holds Steve's gaze for a moment, hoping to communicate that. Then gestures for him to follow him deeper into the workshop. "Step into my office: I want your input on color schemes. Red and gold makes a statement."

Rogers follows, but there's a frown pinching his lips. "What about red and blue?" 

"Red and blue," Tony scoffs. "Throw a little white in there, and you'll be a walking flag."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Tony blinks once. Twice. But no, that gritty-sand feeling in his eyes doesn't go away. He pulls his gaze from the halodisplay to the alarm clock in the corner of the workshop, and has to squint to make the fuzzy numbers come into focus.

"JARVIS, is that AM or PM?"

"The time is currently four ten in the morning, Sir."

"... Huh." He'd meant to stop, oh, about six in the evening, but chasing the repulser bug in Mark II's left boot had been trickier than he'd anticipated.

Rolling back from his workbench, he lifts his hands over his head in a long stretch. Approximately all his vertebra pop, and his knee aches dully in a way it does when he's been motionless for too long. Or when he's been working in too much. Or when the weather changes. Or whenever.

Tony hobbles his way to the elevator, and if he leans heavily on his cane, well. No one's around to see it.

Or at least that's what he assumes.

The elevator dings open on the main level. Across the living room, Rogers' workstation is still active. Rogers had set it up a week ago, old school -- vid screens instead of halodisplays, and an Apple iPad that gives Tony the hives.

Right now, two of the four screens are active -- one showing Headline News, the other a green screen of military code. Rogers is sprawled over the desk, asleep. His left hand rests loosely on the iPad.

Tony can't help himself. He shuffles over and peers down. The iPad is running a video of what looks like a party. The sound is off, but the shakey cam shows young men and women in military and SWORD uniforms. Some hold drinks. Several are dancing, and Tony feels a jolt when he recognizes Steve, younger, or maybe less careworn. His hands are linked with a handsome brunet man in dress uniform. They grin and speak soundlessly to each other, and the brunet tries a dip. When Steve comes up, they're both laughing. And the look in their eyes is love.

This must be the late James Barnes.

Tony taps the screen to pause it, then touches Steve's shoulder. "C'mon, Rogers. No rest for the wicked."

Steve snorts, blinks his eyes open, and sits up. The hand resting on the iPad spreads to cover the screen possessively, and Tony knows it was the last thing Steve thought off before he drifted off. Tony pretends not to see.

"Hmm. Mr. Stark?" Steve blinks, then frowns at him. "Everything alright?"

"Sure. Just saving you from a backache, sleeping like that."

"I'm fine," Steve says quickly.

That wasn't remotely the question, but the way Steve is covering the iPad is screaming 'back off' vibes. Tony can take a hint.

"Never thought you weren't," he says lightly.

Steve rubs his face with the side of his hand -- it's a cute gesture. Then he looks up at Tony. "Aren't you supposed to be on a plane to New York in two hours?"

Tony blanks. "The board meeting's today?" And now he remembers why he wanted to get out of the workshop by six. He has a moment of panic, then waves it away. "They're my board of directors -- it's still my company. Even if--"

"They lock you out?" Steve says wryly. Then he rises from his seat, pushing an errant piece of blond hair out of his eyes. "Grab a shower, Mr. Stark. I'll get you packed and drive you to the airport."

For a moment, Tony's thrown. He remembers a scene like this -- watching from an open crack in the door as Jarvis -- the man, not the machine -- said something very similar to Howard. " _Get washed up, Mr. Stark. I'll see to your packing..._ "

"I'm driving," Tony says, snapping out of it. "I don't like to be driven places."

Steve frowns. "Then why do you have a chuffer?"

"Happy? He's a special case, and he's Pepper's now. Effective last Monday."

It looks like Steve wants to say something, then decides against it. "Then you drive," he says at last, "I'll sit in the passenger's seat and grab when wheel when you pass out from exhaustion."

"Square deal," Tony says, knowing that would never happen. He's stayed up longer than this -- granted, when he was younger, and his heart wasn't damaged, and his knee didn't throb so much he wasn't sure how he was going to stand in the shower unassisted much less handle the clutch.

Tony hobbles off to his room, and behind him hears Headline News unmuted.

Steve Rogers is back to work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Admit it," Tony says thirty-six hours later as the private jet _finally_ tilts downward for landing. The pilot had indicated their decent fifteen minutes ago, and he can't help but think of how fast the armor could have managed the same landing. "I did good. It's okay, you can say it. I already know." 

"I already told you, four hours ago." Pepper's trying to hide a smile. Tony can tell.

He leans back in his plush chair. "It's not everyday I disrupt a hostile takeover, fire board members, and shock the hell out of stuffy old men." Tony preens. The attempted lock-out, he'd been expecting. The vote for a take-over, he hadn't.

Good thing Obie had his back, or it could have gotten messy.

Pepper, bless her two thousand dollar heels, had managed to slip in information that one influential voter, Browning, also had a foothold in Roxxon Oil which was conveniently the shadow company behind the attempted take-over. After that had come to life, the other members were too skittish to follow through.

Together, Tony and Obie had swooped in for the kill.

"If all board meetings were this exciting, maybe I'd attend more often," he muses.

The plane touches down onto the runway with an unpleasant jolt that makes his knee twinge.

Not noticing his discomfort, Pepper smiles at him, then glances out the window as the jet taxis to a stop. "There's Happy, but who's the other driver?"

Tony leans to look out her window. Steve Rogers is waiting for him, leaning against the Audi, arms crossed, and chatting casually with Happy.

"That would be my butler, Rogers," Tony says, swallowing past a mix of irritation and inconvenient bolt of lust. Steve must have taken Tony's advice and visited his tailor because his charcoal gray suit is nicely fitted, giving an illusion of length to his slight frame. His blond hair's neat and styled, modern but professional. "I told you about him, didn't I?"

"No...." Pepper says slowly, looking back at Tony, then out the window again.

Of course Tony didn't because he actually hadn't planned for this yet. He'd wanted to introduce Rogers slowly, to avoid the exact suspicious look Pepper's giving him now.

The door opens, and Rogers hurries up to take Tony's luggage with a solicitous, "Have a good flight, Mr. Stark?"

"Yes, very," he replies. He can feel Pepper and Happy watching him. The addition of new help wouldn't be odd for another billionaire, but Tony's notoriously selective on who's included in his personal staff.

"Pep," Tony says, turning back to her. "Quarterly earning projections on Monday?"

"Tuesday," she corrects, as he knew she would. "And before you ask, it'll be bloody."

"Births usually are." He nods his goodbye to her and limps to the car. Rogers follows.

"What," Tony says around a clenched smile as he slides into the driver's seat, "are you doing here?"

Roger packs away the luggage and buckles into the the passenger side. His professional smile is equally as fake as he mutters, "Military satellites have picked up movement. The Ten Rings are invading Gulmira. It won't hit the news cycle for another six hours, but it's going to be a slaughter."

Tony's annoyance drains away. "Well," Tony says, starting the car. "What are we waiting for?"

He hits the gas.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thanks to some serious number crunching, and adjustments to the armor's internal pressurization system to allow it to reach higher altitude (The icing problem has been solved along with a new coat of paint) Roger's estimated flight time to Afghanistan has been shaved from five hours to just over three. 

Tony's been working on the armor with a single minded focus he hasn't had since MIT. He knows every centimeter, every _millimeter,_  every servo and hydraulic link.  Still, when Steve steps out in Mark II, sans helmet, Tony's breath is taken away.

The armor is a sight to behold. The red is not quite so hot-rod as Tony would have liked, more on the level of crimson. The highlights are burnished, buttery gold. The original paint job was missing a little something-something. Steve, with his artist's eye, suggested a silver star, with twin lines spreading out from the right and left. It sat dead in the middle of the chest piece, over where the suit's independent arc reactor was safely hidden.  No point to risking a technological connection from the few people who have seen Tony's arc reactor.

"Lookin' good, Rogers."

Steve looks down at the armor's defined chest, swallows, and meets Tony's eye. "Feeling good, Mr. Stark."

Tony does not allow his hands to shake as he oversees the final diagnostics. Rogers' looking a little green around the gills, too. His skin's milky pale, and he's pacing back and forth in the suit.

 _Pre-flight jitters. He'll be fine_ , Tony thinks, once he gets up in the air. He hopes.

Finally, the diagnostics came back green across the board.

Tony keeps his expression impassive as he helped Rogers fit the helmet. The face plate snaps down, and the eyes light up.

Stepping back, Tony takes one last look at his work and allows himself an inkling of pride.  "Ready?" he asks.

The suit nods stiffly. "As I'll ever be."

 _This is the part where someone should say something inspiring,_ Tony thinks. As glib he is with words, it's always the important things which have escaped him. "Hop to it, then," he says.

The repulsers fire and the armor lifts into the air, taking Tony's heart along with it.


End file.
